


Opportunity

by SickBacchus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, PWP, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SickBacchus/pseuds/SickBacchus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have to hide in a cramped space... I think you know where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opportunity

John leaned on the large desk that Sherlock was rifling through.

“Haven’t you found the letter yet? Can’t I help?”

“No,” Sherlock drawled, “and if you are bored, John, you could occupy yourself by standing guard.”

John pushed himself up off the desk and walked to the door, peering around the corner.

“You did say he wasn’t home, right Sherlock?”

“Yes, but it’s taking longer then I predicted to find it. For a secretary, he really is appallingly disorganized.”

John snorted.

“What is so amusing?”

“You. Looking down on someone with a messy desk.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the drawer he was rooting through. “Despite what you might think, my possessions in Baker Street are carefully organized. I know where everything is and everything is where is should be.” He gave a cry of triumph and held up a blue envelope in his hand. “Found it!”

At that moment a door slammed down the hall and footsteps approached towards the room. John immediately ran to the large wardrobe, opened to door, and began to step in. He looked back to see Sherlock putting the desk back into the right order.

John grabbed Sherlock by the cuff of his shirt and pulled him into the wardrobe, got in behind him and shut the door. Trying to slow his breathing, he listened for the footsteps.

“Damn,” Sherlock said, and John could tell by the sounds and Sherlock arms rubbing against him that he was straightening his collar. “I hope it’s not Lestrade. He would be quite disturbed to find us here… but surely he hasn’t found out about the letter yet, let alone gotten a warrant…”

“Lestrade? I thought he was the one who sent you here!” John hissed.

“Well, not precisely,” said Sherlock, grinning. “Well, to be accurate, not at all.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I can’t be arrested, I’ve got my gun on me!”

Sherlock clasped a hand over John’s mouth, put his lips against Johns ear and whispered, “We might just need it.”

Through the crack in the door of the wardrobe, John could just see a figure walk in, too heavyset to be Lestrade. The suspect then.

Sherlock shifted behind him, his head over Johns, also looking out the crack, his hands splayed on the wall by Johns shoulders. John could feel Sherlock’s breaths, coming quick and shallow, where Sherlock’s chest pressed against his back.

The figure entered the room slowly, his direction unclear if he was progressing towards the desk or the wardrobe. John took a deep breath to ready himself for a fight, should they be discovered. He had to stopped himself from gasping in surprise when a hand brushed over his shoulder, groping over his chest, and upward, cool fingers brushing the hollow of his neck. Sherlock’s fingers flicked open the top few buttons of his coat, reached into the inner pocket of his coat, where his gun was hidden. Sherlock’s fingers closed over the gun as both he and John watched the figure head towards the desk, and sit down.

John let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, but Sherlock remained tense behind him, hand closed over the gun, his arm wrapped around Johns waist and the metal and hand digging into Johns stomach.

John slid his hand down the wardrobe door, into his jacket and slowly enclosed his hand around Sherlock’s, curling around each finger and gently pulling them away from the gun. He felt a small huff of air from Sherlock in his hair, but continued. If guns were to be involved in a case, John would be in charge.

As the suspect slowly reclined in his chair, John wondered how long they might be stuck in this cupboard. John had been spent extended periods of time hiding in tight spaces before, it was all familiar. Too familiar for his tastes, and John tried to think about anything but Afghanistan.

He focused on his breathing, and how it correlated with Sherlock’s breaths. On Sherlock’s every slow inhale, his chest would press into Johns back, the sound of their coats rubbing, and John would exhale slowly. On Sherlock’s exhale, a warm breath would ruffle John’s hair and the top of his ear, leaving it colder afterward, and John would inhale.

John concentrated on his breathing, keeping his eyes open to keep a firm grasp of his location. However, steadily, his breathing grew faster and shallower, and it took John a moment to realize that it was because Sherlock’s had quickened, blowing quick, hot gusts of air into his hair. Sherlock’s hand, still in John’s coat, had tightened around his shirt, and was digging into his stomach.

John craned his neck to look up at Sherlock’s head directly above his, and could make out through the bit of light coming through the crack, that Sherlock was still watching their suspect, who was still sitting at the desk. Not wielding a gun, not walking towards the wardrobe, not calling for back up. Nothing yet to panic about.

Slowly, silently, John pushed himself up to his toes, sliding against both the wardrobe door and Sherlock, who shuddered, and whispered is Sherlock’s ear.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock did not turn his head to look at him, but his hand tightened further on John’s shirt, and murmured low, “Nothing. But for God’s Sake, stay still.”

John huffed in irritation and slid back down. After all, he was the one who was staying still. Sherlock continued to shift and make small noises until John felt…

Oh.

Against John’s arse he could feel the slight press of… something. Without thinking, he pressed back firmly, and there was no missing the way Sherlock gasped.

Sherlock was pressed against him and achingly hard. The thought made John suddenly a bit weak in the knees. Surely they’d had moments before, after a chase, after gunfire… they’d had so many ‘maybes,’ so many ‘almosts.’ The wait had John on the brink of frustration many times, to the point that often after coming home from a particularly exciting case he would skip the sitting room entirely, and head straight to his own room and take himself in hand.

If this is what he could have, he would take it.

Slowly, cautiously, he leaned his cheek onto the cool wardrobe door, and arched back into Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock collapsed around John onto the door of the wardrobe, pressing his face into the back of Johns neck, his hips still, but pressed tightly against John.

They stayed like that for over a minute, neither moving. Then slowly, John felt Sherlock’s hips dragging up his backside, the whisper of their trousers deafeningly loud against the otherwise silent room.

Sherlock’s face turned tighter into Johns neck, and John could feel the lack of air, Sherlock holding his breath. Waiting. Sherlock’s fingers on his stomach slowly spread, past the hem of his shirt, and cold fingers brushed navel, making the skin and muscles in his stomach twitch.

He shoved back, hard, and Sherlock began to rock in earnest, each shove pushing John into the doors wardrobe, giving him a hint of friction to make him dizzy. He bit his fist to stop himself from groaning.

Sherlock sped up, losing rhythm, and pressing so hard into Johns neck he could feel teeth between lips. Suddenly he stilled, whole body tensed then with an exhalation he slumped onto John.

John waited for all of ten seconds before moving his hand, to finish himself off, when Sherlock stood up, opened the wardrobe door, and pushed them both out.

“Shit!” John yelped and reached for his gun, but the room was empty.

Sherlock grinned at him. “He left over three minutes ago. And we have less then fifteen minutes to intercept him before he meets his client. Hurry up now.”

And with that, Sherlock ran out the door.

John stood for a moment, his sex-addled mind more concerned with the fact that he _still hadn’t got off_ but with a sigh, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, and jogged after Sherlock.  



End file.
